


What To Do When Your Emotionally Constipated Werewolf Boyfriend Gets Cursed By A Witch: A Guide

by fairytalesandfolklore



Series: Teen Wolf [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A Very Potter Musical references, Curses, Harry Potter References, Knitting References, M/M, Witches, oblivious idiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:08:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27518890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairytalesandfolklore/pseuds/fairytalesandfolklore
Summary: "Hey, maybetrue love's kisswill break your curse," Stiles jokes one night when they're all crowded around the dinner table sharing Italian takeaway.Derek practically shoves his entire fist into his mouth to stop himself from blurting out,maybe you should give it a try.Luckily, Stiles is too busy screeching about burning his tongue on a scalding mouthful of mozzarella to notice.
Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, sterek - Relationship
Series: Teen Wolf [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2083419
Comments: 28
Kudos: 511





	What To Do When Your Emotionally Constipated Werewolf Boyfriend Gets Cursed By A Witch: A Guide

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction inspired by _Teen Wolf_. Respective concepts, characters, and settings from the original source content belong to their creator(s). No copyright infringement is intended.  
>   
>  **Author's Note #1:** I am, always have been, and always will be Sterek trash (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧  
>   
>  **Author's Note #2: whovianmuse → fairytalesandfolklore**

**• • •**

Derek heaves a long-suffering sigh as he approaches the clearing along the mountainside, home to one of the most powerful covens Beacon Hills has ever seen, swathed in protection spells so thick it's a wonder he'd been able to track them down at all. He hopes like hell they'll be able to fix this, because otherwise, he is so, _so_ screwed.

_Mother_

_fucking_

_witches_

**• • •**

It starts at a pack meeting late one night in mid-October. They're all crowded around the living room of the reconstructed Hale house in varying states of panic and boredom, half-empty pizza boxes scattered across coffee tables and couch cushions, discussing the recent problem of _witches_ in Beacon Hills. 

A powerful coven has encroached upon their territory, and as a result, strange things have been happening all over town — people disappearing and reappearing at random — animals transfigured into objects and vice versa (that was a wild day at the cat café) — townsfolk randomly sprouting mythical appendages (unicorn horns, fairy wings, mermaid scales, the works) and not taking any notice until they pass by a shop window and everyone rushes out to compliment them on their SFX skills — and, of course, the occasional body-swap. 

All in all, it's been _relatively_ harmless, more like practical jokes in the spirit of the season, but they want to put a stop to it before it turns nefarious and someone ends up getting hurt or _worse_. 

For the most part, Derek and Scott have managed to make this whole co-alpha hybrid pack dynamic work in their favor ( _it's like co-parenting, but with more fangs_.) And it's been working out pretty well so far; Scott and Derek have been seeing eye to eye on things a lot more than they used to, the pack as a whole has been growing stronger, learning to trust and rely on one another. On the days where they differ and clash, Stiles is the usually the one to jump and mediate. Derek would have thought that Stiles would be biased and favor Scott, but he's actually quite good at balancing between the both of them, seeing the merit of both of their sides, translating miscommunications in a way both Derek and Scott can understand.

Today, however, is _not_ one of those days. Scott's arguing for one plan of attack, Derek for another. It escalates, insults start flying, tempers flaring. And Stiles, bless him, makes a valiant attempt to intervene, but just ends up interjecting his _own_ anxiety into the situation, and suddenly, it's the lacrosse locker room all over again, and he's pacing back and forth, freaking out over what horrible thing the witches might be planning.

"Oh my god, I've only just realized," he panics, breath coming out in heavy gusts. "The full moon falls on _Halloween_ this year, and a whole ass coven of witches just _happens_ to show up in Beacon Hills? You can't tell me that's just a coincidence. What if they're planning some kind of… _ritualistic sacrifice_?"

"Stiles, I highly doubt that could happen _twice_ in the same—" Allison interjects in an attempt to soothe his nerves, but Stiles just barrels on like he hadn't heard her.

"I've seen _Hocus Pocus_ , I know what they're after!" he practically shouts. "It's the _virgin thing_ all over again, and in case it isn't obvious, I still haven't _fixed_ that particular problem. Seriously, how many times is my life going to become a _fuck or die_ trope?"

Derek blinks a couple of times, lips parting slightly as he watches Stiles's frantic pacing come to a sudden halt.

"That settles it," Stiles says with a decisive nod. "I need to have sex. _Right now_. Someone needs to sex me _right fucking now_."

There's a scuffle of laughter from the far side of the room as Erica shouts, "Derek will do it!" at the same time Jackson snickers, "Derek, that's your cue."

Derek closes his eyes and lets out a long-suffering sigh. _Of course_ they'd jump all over that. _Of course_. Because _somehow_ , over the course of the past couple of years, nearly everyone in the pack has gotten it into their heads that Stiles and Derek have got a _thing_ for each other, and _apparently_ , they're feeling particularly cocky today. 

He supposes he should be used to it by now. Derek has lost count of the amount of times he's caught them all muttering things like _Jesus Christ, just fuck each other already_ and _get a goddamn room_ under their breath every time the two of them go at it, throwing empty threats and half-hearted insults at each other in the weirdest brand of flirting anyone has ever seen, or the way they all make gagging noises claiming they're choking on the thick layer of sexual tension permeating the air every time Stiles and Derek so much as _glance_ in each other's direction.

Or the way Erica had full-on CACKLED that one time she'd caught Derek burying his face into a pillow that Stiles had spent the entire pack meeting holding, fidgeting with it until he'd unraveled the threading in one of the corners.

_It's fine_ , Derek thinks. He's got a sewing kit around here somewhere, he can mend it later. He is a little concerned, though. He thinks maybe Stiles had just been nervous about the topics addressed during the meeting, scared for his father's safety at the idea of yet another potential threat, but he doesn't _smell_ any hint of fear on the fabric. It just smells _good_. Like Stiles. Like pack. Like _home_. 

And— there's a hint of _something else_ there too that he can't quite place, but it's making his heart do this funny flipping thing inside his chest.

"Oh my god, you guys are so stupid for each other, it's _sickening_ ," Erica says, but her tone is playful, almost fond. 

"What?" Derek says distractedly, like he's genuinely surprised to find himself with company.

Erica rolls her eyes. 

"The _pillow_ , Derek," she says, pointing at it like it's incriminating evidence. Derek wraps his arms around it and pulls it closer to his chest, tucking it under his chin.

"The fucking pillow Stiles used as a goddamn _boner shield_ all meeting," Erica smirks. "You do know _why_ he had it, don't you? Come on, you can't tell me you didn't do it on purpose."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Derek snaps, but it's less heated and more defensive than anything else, and suddenly he won't look her in the eye. 

Erica heaves a theatrical sigh. 

"Next time you show up for a pack meeting straight after a workout, wear a fucking shirt or something so you don't give poor Stiles a heart attack, will you?" 

And then she's laughing again, whipping around the corner and strolling up the stairs to her and Boyd's room, before Derek can do more than splutter.

_"I need to have sex. Someone needs to sex me right fucking now."_

_"Derek will do it!"_

_"Derek, that's your cue."_

Yup. That's it. They're dead.

He's about to laugh it off, roll his eyes and tell them to shut the fuck up, but instead what comes out of his mouth is—

"Okay."

Spoken in the _softest fucking cadence_ he didn't even know he possessed.

The room falls dead silent. Everyone stops what they're doing and just _stares_ at him. Derek's heart picks up speed as his brain catches up with his stupid, _stupid_ mouth. His eyes widen, like he can't believe he just said that out loud, like he had absolutely no control over it. Because truthfully, he _hadn't_.

He chances a look over at Stiles. If he wasn't so shocked and terrified by what just happened, he'd have laughed, because Stiles has got his mouth hanging open comically wide, eyebrows practically disappearing into his hairline as he fixes Derek with an incredulous stare.

And then he's bursting out laughing.

"Oh my god," he says, practically wheezing, hand clutched over his heart. "You really had me going there for a minute. You're messing with me, just like Danny. I've never heard you joke like that before."

And then everyone else starts laughing, and Derek forces himself to join in, pointedly avoiding the looks of _what the fuck_ plastered all over Boyd, Isaac, and Erica's faces, internally screaming his own chorus of _what the ever-loving fuck_ because that definitely hadn't been a joke and Derek _definitely_ hadn't mean to say that out loud.

Amidst his panic, the words _who the fuck is Danny?_ nettle at the back of his mind, and he can't decide if he's more offended by the fact that someone _else_ propositioned Stiles for sex, or that the fact that they weren't actually serious about it.

**• • •**

At first, Stiles thinks it's just a practical joke. It _has_ to be, because over the course of the week that follows, Derek stops being a sarcastic asshole toward Stiles, and instead, starts _showering_ him in compliments. He's started smiling at him more, too ( _genuine_ smiles, not weird fake vaguely threatening ones) and telling Stiles that _he looks nice today_. 

Stiles is just going about his life, cracking self-deprecating jokes as usual, but instead of smirking and adding an insulting quip of his own, Derek has started to become like, _aggressively_ nice, getting almost _angry_ whenever Stiles insults himself.

"God, I'm so _stupid_ ," Stiles sighs as he crosses out the wrong answer to a math problem he'd been working on at Derek's kitchen table.

"Hey, don't talk about yourself like that," Derek scolds him, brow furrowed. "You're one of the smartest people I know."

Stiles stares at him.

Derek blinks a few times in rapid succession, dropping the stack of playing cards he'd been shuffling for game night onto the kitchen counter with a deafening clatter. 

He looks just as surprised as Stiles feels.

"Uh…thanks, man," Stiles manages, a tell-tale blush prickling the back of his neck as he buries his nose in his textbook and doesn't resurface for several minutes straight, having retained absolutely nothing on the page.

Or the time Lydia, Malia, and Cora were all roaring with laughter as Stiles went on a rant about his intricate twenty-five step plan to get someone to want to sleep with him before the next full moon. 

Mock-insulted and mostly joking, he declares, "What, you don't think there's at least _one person_ out there who wants to get with all of this?" 

Stiles runs a hand up and down his own torso as an offering, and Derek nearly has a conniption.

"I'm a goddamn _snack_ , I'll have you know."

"Shut up. No you're not," Derek says out of habit, and then, like he just can't help himself, immediately follows it up with, "You're a full course meal."

Stiles pauses, staring at Derek in disbelief. 

Derek suddenly goes very rigid, eyes widening ever so slightly in alarm. He slaps a hand over his mouth, like he's physically restraining himself from saying anything more. 

And then Stiles bursts out laughing. 

"Dude, that's _funny_. I'm gonna have to start using that," he says, penciling in the pick-up line as step twenty-six. 

And it's not just compliments, either. Derek is being, like, _weirdly affectionate_ , in his own gruff, _sourwolf_ way, sharing little pieces of his family history, little anecdotes and personal stories and facts about himself. 

Stiles collects them like a memory magpie.

_Derek prefers pancakes over waffles._

_Derek likes the color red._

_Derek has the entire Harry Potter series in pristine hardcover._

_Derek used to sit at his grandmother's feet and untangle yarn for her while she knitted him and his siblings cozy winter hats and sweaters._

And it'd be really endearing, probably, if it didn't make Stiles wildly uncomfortable. Because this is _Derek_ we're talking about. A guy so emotionally constipated, it looks like it's causing him physical pain. 

Over the years, Stiles has come to expect a certain dynamic between the two of them, one that straddles the line between empty threats and half-hearted insults, and this whole weird new _nice guy routine_ that Derek has suddenly got going on comes out of absolutely _nowhere_ to the point where it makes Stiles _suspicious_. 

(Seriously. _Sourwolf sus_.)

So he starts to get really paranoid, thinking that Derek must have somehow found out about his — well, he wouldn't call it a _crush_ , exactly — and is just fucking with him, just to be a dick. 

Like, maybe he caught Stiles staring at him during pack meetings one too many times, or, _oh god_ , what if he can _smell the arousal_ coming off of him in waves whenever they lock eyes, and he's finally put two and two together after all these years and figured out that the reason Stiles's heartbeat goes crazy every time Derek is around isn't because he's scared of him, or because he's had too much caffeine.

Or— _oh fuck_. Maybe Derek had _heard him_ that one time he'd jerked off in the shower to the thought of Derek pressing him up against his bedroom wall and gasped out Derek's name as he'd, uh, _crescendoed_ , before strolling back into his room wearing nothing but a sated, shit-eating grin and a towel wrapped around his waist, only to find the _real_ Derek sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for him. 

Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin and drops the towel, shouting all manner of colorful obscenities. The look on Derek's face is… _interesting_. Stiles can practically _feel_ Derek's eyes boring into him, trailing over every inch of him, lingering on the border where his towel meets his hipbones and swallowing thickly, and Stiles can't help but follow the movements, entranced, watching his Adam's apple bob up and down and wondering how it would taste under his tongue, and _oh god, now his body thinks it's time for round two and he's tenting his towel and oh noooooo_ —

And then Derek clears his throat a little louder and more aggressively than normal, and they both avert their eyes, and Stiles controls himself long enough to ask _why_ Derek is here, and then Derek slowly turns his back so that Stiles can hastily get dressed, handing him a slip of paper with a weird symbol on it that he's hoping Stiles can decipher for him.

"So, uh…out of curiosity…exactly how long were you here before I stepped out of the shower?" Stiles asks as Derek grips the frame of his bedroom window, one foot already out on the roof. The crack in his voice is hard to miss.

"Long enough," Derek says cryptically, which could either mean _I heard you_ or _you kept me waiting_ , and Stiles is honestly not sure which one is worse.

**• • •**

A loud crash snaps Stiles back to the present and he looks up to find Erica climbing through his bedroom window, followed swiftly by Boyd and Isaac, tumbling into a heap onto his bedroom floor. Try as they might, the leather-clad trio have never quite managed to replicate Derek's finesse and grace when it comes to breaking and entering.

Before Stiles can get out even so much as a _what the fuck_ , they're rounding on him, talking over each other in a worried frenzy, telling Stiles that there's something _very wrong_ with Derek. Stiles's heart starts to race, mouth going dry, and he's already going through his mental rolodex of potential cures and fix-its, when they say the most ludicrous thing he's ever heard in his life.

"We think that Derek's been cursed," Erica says.

"By a witch," Isaac clarifies.

"And now he can only say _really nice things_ ," Boyd finishes.

"What," Stiles says flatly. And then he's shaking with laughter.

"You think Derek's been hit with a…what, a _nice guy curse_?" he asks around incredulous laughter. "Are you for fucking real? Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?"

"You don't understand," Erica says seriously, bracing her hands on either side of Stiles's shoulders. "Tonight, he told us he _loved us_ and that he's proud of us."

Stiles's mouth drops open.

"And that's not all," Isaac chimes in. "We tested it out. Asked him to tell us how he _really_ feels about Scott, and do you know what he said?"

"What?" Stiles asks, preparing to launch into a one-man Scott McCall defense party.

"That Scott's _a good kid with a heart of gold_ ," Erica scoffs, like it's physically painful for her to recall. "Can you _believe_ that?"

"Holy shit," Stiles says, perplexed.

Suddenly it all clicks into place, the reason _why_ Derek has been so unnervingly _kind_ to him these past few days. He's been _cursed_. And yeah, he's aware that it sounds like complete bullshit, but it's also kind of the only thing that makes sense right now.

"Yeah, so…as you can see, Derek needs _help_ ," Erica says, like being _nice_ is some kind of terminal illness.

"And what makes you think _I_ can fix this?" Stiles asks.

"Duh, you're the brains of the pack," Erica says, like it's _obvious_.

"Derek said that if anyone is clever enough to find the answer, it's you," Boyd tells him. And that's…well, weirdly _nice_.

**• • •**

So he researches, and he researches, and he researches, and he doesn't come up with a damn thing, because never, in this history of witchcraft and wizarding lore, has there ever been a curse that made someone _say nice things_. Because honestly, that's just stupid.

Still, it keeps happening. Derek keeps dropping _nice bombs_ fucking _everywhere_ , every single time he opens his mouth. And it sucks, because it's really starting to have an _effect_ on Stiles. Derek will say something really sweet to him, and he'll find himself starting to give in to that hope he's been harboring for years, and then he has to shake himself really hard and remind himself that it's just the curse talking, that Derek probably doesn't actually _mean_ anything he's saying. 

Except—

Well…lately, it's like all of their interactions have this weird sort of romantic, sexually charged undercurrent to them, and Stiles can't help but notice that Derek doesn't act like that with anyone else but _him_.

He'll compliment Lydia on her intellect. Kira on her power. Allison on her archery skills. He'll tell Cora and Malia how grateful he is to call them family, how brave and strong and resilient they are. He'll tell Isaac, Erica, and Boyd how proud he is that they've come so far and learned so much, not just from him, but from Scott as well, who makes a great leader. He even told Jackson that he thinks he could go pro in lacrosse, if he wanted to. 

But with Stiles, it's much more frequent, much more _specific_. Little details he _shouldn't_ notice. 

If Stiles didn't know any better, he'd think Derek was flirting with him. 

_"Red is a great color on you."_

_"You smell like coffee and desert air after it rains."_

_"Your moles and freckles look like star maps."_

_"You have really soft hands."_

One time, he literally just said the word, _"forearms,"_ with a wide-eyed expression on his face before bolting out of the room, leaving Stiles standing alone in the middle of the living room with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a paintbrush held aloft in one hand.

And it all just keeps tumbling out of his mouth like dulcet word vomit, like he's _physically incapable_ of restraining himself. 

He's never seen Derek so flustered.

Not only that, but he could almost _swear_ he keeps catching Derek just _staring_ at him at random intervals, but whenever he looks up, Derek's gaze quickly shifts away and the tips of his ears redden a little bit like he's embarrassed at having been caught looking at Stiles, and it's like they've switched places, because out of the two of them, _Stiles_ is supposed to be the blushing idiot, the one saying all of these stupidly candid schmaltzy things. _Stiles_ is the one who notices all of Derek's little details, not the other way around. 

It's so unnerving that Stiles starts to wonder if Derek hasn't been spiked with something even worse, like a _love potion_ or something. Stiles buckles down and researches even harder, losing sleep as he searches for a cure.

**• • •**

They're crowded around the kitchen table one afternoon after classes let out, shooting the shit about what they think they witch coven could possibly be up to, when talk turns to childhood nostalgia and they all start arguing over which Hogwarts house they'd each get sorted into if _they_ were witches. 

Scott gets a unanimous vote for Gryffindor, but his triumphant smile fades when Erica insists that Stiles is a _Slytherin_ , not a Gryffindor, and that Derek is some kind of Gryffindor/Slytherin hybrid. Isaac thinks they're all squibs. Boyd says that Stiles would get eaten by the giant squid before he even had a chance to be sorted. Stiles gets heated, slapping the table and arguing that Derek is _obviously_ a Hufflepuff. 

"Think about it," he says. "He's all about family, incredibly loyal, selfless to a fault, _patient_ to a fault when it comes to that creepy-ass uncle of his, believes in hard work and fair play, strong sense of upholding justice. Case in point, Derek is the perfect Hufflepuff."

"What the _hell_ is a _Hufflepuff_?" Derek's brusque voices makes them all jump, and eleven pairs of eyes all whip to the doorframe where he's standing, balancing half a dozen pizza boxes in one hand. And Stiles chokes on air, because _did he just quote—_

And then a broad smile spreads across Derek's face and he says, "Just kidding. I've got a prefect badge with a badger crest on it hidden in my sock drawer."

He strolls over to the table and sets down their dinner, and Stiles doesn't miss the way the tips of Derek's ears burn scarlet after he drops that little personal anecdote.

"You're all wrong, by the way," he adds, almost as if _compelled_ to keep talking. "If anything, Stiles is a Ravenclaw. Naturally curious, avid learner and researcher, creative and clever. And I mean, _sure_ , you've got some positive Gryffindor and Slytherin qualities, too. We _all_ do. Bravery and cunning kind of comes with the territory. But Stiles is a textbook Ravenclaw."

Derek pauses for a moment, wide eyed expression fixed to the kitchen floor as he sucks in a steady breath and then slowly, shakily, releases it back out through his nostrils. He shakes his head as if to clear it, and then promptly walks out of the kitchen at a quick stride, leaving Stiles staring after him, open-mouthed.

And if Stiles winds up at the local craft store the following morning, picking out the softest black and yellow yarn he can find and cramming a copy of _Knitting For Dummies_ under his arm so that he can maybe learn how to knit Derek a Hufflepuff scarf for his birthday this year…well, what of it?

**• • •**

"Hey, maybe _true love's kiss_ will break your curse," Stiles jokes one night when they're all crowded around the dinner table sharing Italian takeaway.

Derek practically shoves his entire fist into his mouth to stop himself from blurting out, _maybe you should give it a try._

Luckily, Stiles is too busy screeching about burning his tongue on a scalding mouthful of mozzarella to notice.

**• • •**

They're in Derek's living room late one evening, nearly a fortnight after the initial _incident_. Everyone else has gone home, or gone up to their respective rooms. Everyone except for Stiles, who had opted to stay behind to do a bit of reading and rune translation in an effort to get Derek back to normal and solve what Stiles has been affectionately referring to as _the curse of the compliments_ , tucked away into a leather armchair in the far corner, while Derek sprawls out on the couch, exhausted after a run through the woods. 

He doesn't know when he had gotten so comfortable around Stiles, allowed himself to become so vulnerable and unguarded, but he ends up falling asleep, lulled by the sound of Stiles's steady scribbling as he takes notes and hums thoughtfully to himself, altogether missing the affectionate smile that spreads across Stiles's face as he glances up in Derek's direction, faltering mid-sentence around a half-formed question.

A little shiver winds it way down Derek's spine, and Stiles vaults upward, scattering notes and highlighters everywhere as he moves to drape Derek in a patchwork quilt hanging off the back of the couch.

As he drifts into an easy slumber, Derek dreams about Stiles. It's that same dream he's had countless times before, except this time, there's no impending sense of doom, no danger, no kanima stalking around the edges of the swimming pool. Just the two of them, clutching one another, breath coming out in heated gusts, spiraling over the top of their heads. 

It's all so _vivid_ , like he's reliving it, only through a different lens. He can feel the bruising grip of Stiles's arms as they wind around his torso, the way Stiles's heartbeat crashes against his ribcage, reverberating against his back. 

In this memory, Stiles isn't holding him up because he _has to_. Because this time, Derek has full control over his entire body. He twists around in Stiles's arms until they're facing one another, breath ghosting over each other's lips, and then he's backing him up against the edge of the pool, fingertips tracing the curves of his reddened lips before surging forward and capturing him in a kiss.

He can feel _everything_ , the press of Stiles's body against his own as Stiles arches into him, writhes against him, like he can't get close enough. The feel of Stiles's lips and tongue and teeth against his throat as he buries his face into the curve of Derek's shoulder. The way Stiles whispers his name against Derek's ear, desperate and longing, with a soft affection that makes him want to _weep_. 

And it's all too much, too much, too _cruel_ because it isn't _real_. 

Derek wakes with a gasp and Stiles's name on the tip of his tongue, only to find the _real_ Stiles hovering over him with a blanket grasped in his outstretched hands, staring down at him with wide eyes, mouth hanging open.

"Sorry, I was just—" Stiles stumbles, taking a cautionary step backward and averting his eyes. "You were shivering. I thought you were cold."

He holds out the blanket like it's a peace offering.

"Oh…uh…thank you," Derek says softly, reaching out to take it and tampering down the electric shock that bolts through his chest as his hand brushes against Stiles's fingertips. 

"And um…you were kind of talking in your sleep?" Stiles poses this next statement as a question, like he's giving Derek an out to contradict him, eyes cast toward the ceiling as he attacks a phantom itch on the back of his neck.

Derek bolts upright, alarmed.

"What did I say?" he asks, fully aware of how frantic he sounds.

"You, uh…well, you sort of said _my name_. And you were kind of like, breathing really heavily," Stiles offers, chancing a glance over at Derek. 

"Is everything okay?" he asks, shifting into _concerned pack dad_ mode, leaning in closer and placing a comforting hand on Derek's shoulder.

"Whoah, your heart's beating really fast," he breathes, brows narrowed in concern as he searches Derek's face for a fault line, no doubt feeling the erratic thrumming as he presses his fingertips against Derek's collarbone. "You okay? Nervous about something?"

Without missing a beat, and absolutely _hating it_ , Derek says, "Yes."

"You want to talk about it?" Stiles asks softly. "What's got you so worked up?"

_You_ , Derek muses with something caught between a smirk and a grimace. Seconds pass before he comes to the horrifying realization that he's said that _out loud_.

Stiles pales, absentmindedly digging his fingertips into Derek's shoulder, where he seems to be fused. He swallows.

"I make you nervous?" he asks, his voice so soft, so disbelieving.

"Yes," Derek grits out against his will.

"Why in the world would _I_ make you nervous?"

Derek presses his lips together to keep the truth from spilling out, squeezing his eyes shut tight. He exhales, his breath shaky, and says, "I was dreaming about that night at the pool. _That's_ why I said your name."

And technically, _technically_ , it's the truth. Just not _all of it_.

Stiles visibly deflates, a gust of breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding rushing out of him.

"Oh. Yeah, that's gotta leave you with some pretty heavy PTSD, huh?" he says, absentmindedly rubbing soothing circles against Derek's shoulder, probably without even realizing he's doing it. It's simultaneously comforting and debilitating all at once.

"Hey, Derek?" he says suddenly, a heart-clenching combination of guilt, sadness, and determination in his eyes. "You know I wouldn't have just left you there, right? Despite what you might think, I wasn't just looking out for myself that night. Literally the only reason I let you go was because I thought if I could get a hold of Scott, we'd both have more of a fighting chance. And if Scott hadn't showed, I would've held you up all night, if I had to. After everything we've been through…I hope you know that by now." 

And honestly, Derek might as well be back at the bottom of that pool, because right now, he feels like he's drowning. He just stares up at Stiles, not trusting himself to speak, his throat uncomfortably tight, the corners of his eyes prickling.

"And I'm not just saying that to be nice," Stiles continues, cutting through the tension just as easily as he'd created it. "I'm not the one who's under some weird kind of _nice guy_ _curse_ , or anything. Which, I know must be an absolute pain in the ass for you, but don't worry, I'm doing everything I can to find a fix, and then you'll be back to the surly, grumpy _sourwolf_ we all know and love."

Stiles gives Derek's shoulder a little squeeze and an affectionate half-smile before slinging his backpack over his shoulder and slipping out the front door. Derek stares at the leather armchair scattered with books and leaflets and highlighters until the Stiles-shaped imprint in its cushions fades away, and then he's stalking up to his bedroom, dragging the quilt and the pillow that always smells like Stiles with him and wrapping himself up in it like a burrito.

**• • •**

Stiles nearly has a heart attack when his bedroom window slides open at a quarter to midnight on the full moon, and Derek comes tumbling inside, a little breathless, but looking determined and resolute. He squares his shoulders, looks Stiles directly in the eye, and says, "Now that I'm no longer cursed and can say this without being _compelled to_ , I've got something I need to say to you."

And Stiles prepares for an onslaught of…well, _something bad_ , because that's just his life now, isn't it? That's just _been_ his life for the past several years, ever since the night he decided, _hey, looking for half a dead body in the woods sounds like fun_ and next thing he knows, his best friend is a werewolf, and then _everyone_ around him is a werewolf, or a kanima, or a kitsune, or a banshee, or a darach, or—

What he _isn't_ prepared for is for Derek to start _waxing poetic_ about all the things he _likes_ about Stiles. Because _oh right_ , on top of everything else, there's also _witches_ and Derek is _cursed_. Only it's weird, because it's not quite as _nice_ as it has been over the past couple of weeks, he's pretty sure there's a few insults disguised as compliments thrown in there that Stiles doesn't even have time to register because he's just so shocked by what Derek says next.

_And I think I might be in love with you._

_I think I have been for a while now, I just didn't realize it._

_Or maybe I just wasn't willing to admit it._

_I guess it took being cursed to finally admit the truth._

And that nervous little _laugh_ that he huffs out. Sweet Jesus.

Every inch of Stiles is on fire.

"Oh fuck," he says, more of a gasp than anything else, panic building in his chest like the world's worst shot of fireball whiskey, and Derek's smile _withers_ , because yeah, _oh fuck_ isn't exactly at the top of the list of things you want to hear after you've just poured your heart out, and the look Stiles gives him is nothing short of _devastating_. 

"Oh fuck, I was _right_ ," Stiles groans, burying his face into the palms of his hands like he's about to cry. _"_ It's gotten _so much worse_. You're not just _cursed,_ you're _delusional_."

It hits Derek like a punch to the gut. He barely registers the blur of red and blue as Stiles bounds off the bed and bolts to his desk, rummaging through haphazard stacks of notebooks and leather-bound books with spiderwebbed spines. Derek watches him with a kind of cautious curiosity, trying to understand what the fuck is going on.

"Don't worry, Derek," Stiles reassures him in a tone that's anything _but_ , shoving the cap of a highlighter off with his teeth and circling a passage on one of the many, many pages of his chicken-scratch notes. "I _promise_ we'll fix this. There's got to be _something_ in here about love potions, because it's clear to me now that you've been spiked with one. We'll catch the witch that did this to you and make them pay."

And just like that, it all clicks into place. The knot coiling in Derek's stomach unclenches, and he starts laughing unabashedly.

"You're such a fucking dumbass sometimes, you know that?" Derek says as his laughter subsides, the gentle fondness of his tone clashing with the bite of his words. "I haven't been spiked with _love potion_ , Stiles. And I told you, I'm not cursed anymore."

And Stiles falters, caught off guard, because it's the first time he's heard Derek's sarcasm in over two weeks, and he kind of hates how much he'd missed it.

"Are…are you sure?" he asks, wincing at how _small_ he sounds.

"Dead certain," Derek replies with a shit-eating grin that shows all his teeth, looking for all the world like he's physically struggling to hold back his amusement.

And that's when it hits him.

If Derek was still cursed, if he'd been _poisoned_ with some kind of love potion, he wouldn't be _able_ to throw insults and sarcastic quips at Stiles. It would go against the very _nature_ of the spell.

Which means there's only one logical explanation for what's going on.

Derek isn't cursed. He's perfectly fine, and he's _fucking_ with him.

Stiles can't believe he learned _two-color brioche_ for this asshole.

"Fuck you," Stiles says harshly, watching with a sick sort of satisfaction as it wipes the smirk right off of Derek's stupidly handsome face.

"Wait, what?" Derek balks, blinking rapidly like he'd just been struck over the head.

"Fuck you for thinking it's _funny_ to mess with a guy's feelings like this," Stiles spits, hating how the tremor in his voice gives him away.

"Stiles, what are you talking about?" Derek asks, incredulous, like _Stiles_ is the one who's delusional. 

"The way I see it, there's only two options here," Stiles barrels on in spite of the agonizing jolt of anxiety-fueled adrenaline twisting through his veins, heat rising in his cheeks. "Either you've been cursed or spiked with _amortentia_ or — I don't fucking know, some kind of _spell_ that makes you _think_ you have feelings for me, or you were never really cursed at all, you've figured out that _I'm_ the one who's in love with _you_ , and you've just been saying all of this nice shit to me to…I don't know, wind me up? Make me look like a jackass? Or maybe you just _like_ hurting people."

That last one stings, lends venom to the bite in Derek's voice.

"Option _C_ ," Derek grits out, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Fucking _Peter_ got involved with not one, not two, but _seven_ witches from the same coven and started a civil war — which explains all of the weird shit that's been happening around town lately — apparently they've been trying to curse _him_ and _each other_. Got caught in his own fucking web of lies and fled the scene…but not before hitting _my house_ to pack supplies so he could skip town. The coven tracked him down there, and placed a curse on the _sole proprietor_. Little did they know, the house is in _my name_. So, lucky me, I got the full blast of it."

Stiles gapes at him for a few moments, eyes trained on the rapid rise and fall of Derek's chest as he struggles to recompose himself. Anything involving his creepy, murderous, and now apparently two-timing (seven-timing?) uncle always gets him so worked up.

"So, what? You actually _were_ cursed and _that's_ the reason you've been saying nice shit for the past two weeks?" Stiles asks with crossed arms and narrowed eyes, but his tone is several shades softer than it had been a few moments ago, curiosity piqued. 

Derek heaves a long-suffering sigh, but he can't help the small smile that pulls at the corner of his lips.

"You still don't get it, do you?" he says with the tone of someone trying to explain something _obvious_ to someone who's very, very stupid. Which, in this case…

"It didn't make me _say nice shit_ , Stiles. It made me incapable of _lying_ , like Peter lied to all of them. It made me more open and vulnerable and _vocal_ about the things I already felt, stuff I tried to keep hidden. And it made me realize just how much I _hated_ doing that." 

"Because yeah, it was definitely _embarrassing_ at times, but it was also kind of _nice_ , not having to keep it in anymore. And I realized that everyone around me seemed happier for it, that I was able to make the people I care about feel _good_ , just by being honest with them about how I really felt about them."

"Which is why…" Derek sighs, pausing to glance up from the floor and lock eyes with Stiles. "As soon as they broke the curse, I came here…to see _you_ …to tell you that I— what I told you."

All of the air rushes out of Stiles's lungs.

"So everything…" he manages, just _barely_ , to keep the choked _disbelief_ out of his voice. "Everything you've been saying to me, to everyone, these past two weeks…and everything you said _just now_ …that was real?"

Derek offers him a small, affectionate smile that nearly breaks him in two.

"Yeah, _dumbass._ I meant every word."

Stiles just stares at him for a moment, rooted to the spot, and Derek can practically _hear_ the cogs turning inside his head as he processes it all and plays catch-up. And then he's smiling, this big, goofy grin spreading across his face as he bounds across the room and throws his arms around Derek's neck with such gusto that he knocks them both backward onto Stiles's bed, swallowing Derek's surprised huff of laughter in a kiss.

**• • •**


End file.
